


On Jupiter and Mars

by mlyn



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-13
Updated: 2007-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlyn/pseuds/mlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vecchio, Kowalski and Fraser infiltrate a gay jazz band to find a murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Jupiter and Mars

Vecchio sighed and rubbed a hand over his head, trying to concentrate. He knew he shouldn't complain, but sobbing in the bullpen really threw him off his game. The fact that it was a gay guy doing the crying made him even more uncomfortable.

For that he felt guilty, too. He wasn't a hypocrite. It's not like he was pretending he wasn't sleeping with Fraser. The sex part wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be. It was everything else—acknowledging that he loved another guy; being open and honest about his relationship, knowing that homosexuality made people uncomfortable if not outright hostile. That all was way scarier, and he hadn't quite mastered all of it.

You wouldn't find him crying over Fraser in a squad room, that's for damn sure.

Vecchio thought that over, then realized how utterly wrong he was.

He got up and picked up his jacket, knowing he wasn't going to be getting any more work done tonight. As he was walking toward the stairwell, he heard Welsh call his name.

"Sir?"

"In my office, Detective."

Vecchio followed Welsh in and closed the door. "Sorry sir, it's a little hard to work out there."

"Precisely why you're here, Vecchio. That's the case I want to talk to you about. How much do you know about it?"

"Just that the guy out there loved the vic." Vecchio kept his voice flat, as far away from condemnation as possible.

"Very astute, Detective. In addition, the two gentlemen are involved with the Chicago Rainbow Band, an orchestra that plays a variety of music but asks that all its members be homosexual."

Vecchio nodded. Wow, there were people out there brave enough to do that?

"The victim was the conductor of the orchestra."

Vecchio nodded again. "Sir, I can get all this from the case notes, if you'd like me to add it to my workload—"

"I'd like you to go undercover, detective, if you would be amenable."

Vecchio's thoughts paused. "As who, sir?"

"A replacement conductor. We believe that the victim knew his killer, but the community is so tightly knit that a standard investigation would likely fail."

Jesus, who came up with these bright ideas? First a mobster, then an orchestra conductor? He was not exactly Fraser, busting at the seams with knowledge about every corner of the universe.

"Sir, I don't think I'm a good fit for such a position." Welsh frowned, but Ray rushed on. "May I recommend the Mountie?"

Welsh's frown deepened, but he'd hesitated. "The Mountie is not officially a member of the Chicago Police Department, Detective Vecchio."

"Hell, sir, he could join the orchestra without the pretense. He'd just do it, and solve the crime himself."

Welsh looked down at his desk and fiddled with a piece of paper. "I had doubted your aptitude for this assignment, but—"

Vecchio bit his cheek. _Thanks a lot!_

"—But I believe you should still be involved, to make sure the Mountie stays out of trouble."

"He does tend to get into it, sir." Vecchio tried to sound interested. He _would_ like to work with Fraser, but Welsh's doubt still stung.

"Do you have any musical skills?"

He hesitated. "Well, sir…"

Welsh sat in his office chair, cocking his head in that air of long-suffering disinterest he had, like he was only listening because it was part of the job.

"I can sing, sir. Sort of."

"Vecchio, I've heard you sing. Anything else?"

"No, sir, honestly…" Vecchio clasped his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders. "I've always faked not being able to sing well, because I actually can sing. I don't like people to know."

Welsh sighed and tossed a pen onto his desk. "I have faith the Mountie will hold you to the standards of the band, anyway. Make sure you set up an audition after he integrates himself with the group, so that there isn't any…disharmony."

Vecchio stifled a wince at the awful joke. "Very good, sir."

Three weeks later, Fraser was spending four evenings a week at the community college performance hall, bonding with the entire band. It was hardly a mere _band_ , in Ray's opinion; there were sizable horn sections, massive amounts of percussion, keyboards and everything. And, maybe, him.

He took a moment to put himself into character as he stepped onto the stage and approached the mic. Fraser was just a tall guy in flannel and jeans. He was just a gay guy who liked to sing. They didn't know each other at all.

"I'm singing 'Lullaby in Birdland,'" he said into the mic. Next to Fraser in the audience, a guy nodded approvingly.

As soon as the pianist's intro was over and Ray opened his mouth, his nervous jitters dissipated.

"Lullaby in Birdland, that's what I always hear when you sigh…" George Shearing's melody piped out of him, his own smooth tenor a perfect complement. Without hesitation he let the music take over, the tension draining out of him.

When he'd finished, he saw the guy next to Fraser lean over and murmur something. Fraser nodded and spoke up.

"Thank you sir, that was wonderful. Do you have anything else you'd like to share with us?"

Ray hesitated. He'd only practiced a few things, knowing that his voice was good enough. With a glance to the pianist, he answered, "In a Sentimental Mood." He knew it was hard, lots of highs and lows, a ballad whose slow rhythm would be tough to keep, and the breathing was tough as hell for an amateur. If he didn't get let in with this, Fraser was off his rocker.

He didn't give the pianist any time, starting immediately. "In a sentimental mood," he sang, notes climbing, and he held the high note. The piano drifted in. "I can see the stars come through my room, while your loving attitude is like a flame that lights the gloom…"

"That's very nice," Fraser interrupted. "Thank you."

Ray choked back the next part—"on the wings of every kiss"—and the piano halted. Fraser had _interrupted_ him. Anyone auditioning should expect to be cut off when the judge has heard enough, but the shock of _Fraser_ interrupting him threw Ray completely off balance. He coughed, looked at the pianist (stony-faced), and nodded. "Thanks," he said as he stepped away, his voice weak in the mic.

He took a seat in the house while Fraser conferred with his companion. They went through a few more prospects, each performing two full songs, and discussed every one for just a minute. There was no hint of preference.

After an hour, Fraser nodded and stood. He turned to face Ray directly, unerringly finding him even in the dim theater.

"Mister Vecchiato. We invite you to join the Chicago Rainbow Band, if you are inclined to join us."

Ray stood, grinning with a feeling of triumph. He probably would have gotten in anyway, because of the whole got-a-case-to-solve thing, but the sensation of accomplishment was still real. "Thanks, I'd like that," he called across the theatre. Fraser nodded, then immediately turned and headed for the opposite exit. The guy who had been sitting next to him looked surprised for a moment, but covered well and approached Ray.

"We have your contact information, so we'll be sending you our rehearsal schedule. The next one is Thursday at seven, right here. You only need to come for the first ninety minutes, since we won't have singing throughout every concert."

Ray nodded. It occurred to him that Thursday used to be the night when him and Benny would get a pie at Giordano's, but apparently Fraser wouldn't be available. His smile became more genuine as he thought of working together on a case with Fraser. "See you on Thursday, then."

The rehearsal on Thursday was far less lighthearted than the audition had been. There was a chair in the corner of the stage with a rainbow flag draped over it, a memorial to the murdered conductor. As the band members entered in groups, everyone looked at the chair with a mixture of emotions—fear, sadness, anger; none of them were positive.

Ray watched them all carefully. He couldn't match faces to names yet, but he noted what instruments they played and how they acted as they entered. He made mental notes on the people who looked angry, although most of them were obviously just bitter over their friend's senseless death.

They couldn't dwell on it, though. Fraser had been the first one to arrive and greeted everyone as they came in, and as soon as the seats were filled, he started rehearsal. He gave "Rudy Vecchiato" a brief introduction to the rest of the band, then raised his baton and called out "Let's start with 'Fascinating Rhythm,'" and they began.

The band was good, although Fraser heard every error. When the run-through finished, he'd talk to each section and point out every missed note or slow phrase. Ray sang the song at least a dozen times, and then they finally took a break.

He was fixing himself a lukewarm cup of water to soothe his throat when the first person came up to chat. Before long he had a small audience, mostly guys, asking him about his background ("so, how long have you been singing like an angel?") and his personal life ("are you seeing anyone?"). He tried to field all the questions, but Fraser soon put a stop to the visiting and asked them to reconvene.

It was at that point that Ray noticed a blond head in the sax section, and it looked really familiar. He returned to his chair and got a better angle, and, yep, it was _Kowalski_. What the hell?

Nobody was giving him a second glance, either, so apparently he wasn't a new guy. Maybe he was undercover, and had been under longer. Or maybe he was actually queer and actually in the band. Now _that_ would explain how he and Fraser had acted after their last case together.

Ray wasn't stupid. People didn't leave behind their jobs, friends, and family to go on months-long sled trips together in the Arctic as "buddies." But when both Kowalski and Fraser had returned to Chicago acting as though they _hadn't_ been trying to make a go of it in Tukaturkistan, Ray figured his gaydar had been off. He certainly hadn't been right about _himself_.

"Rudy. Rudy?"

Remembering that was _him_ , Ray lifted his head and looked at Fraser. "Sorry! Say again?"

"We were hoping you could come in on the second measure there."

"Ah." He looked down at the sheet music he was sharing with the pianist. Now they were doing "Straighten Up and Fly Right." The gays sure did have a sense of humor. "Yeah, sorry. I'm with you."

After his portion of the rehearsal, Ray was pulling on his coat when he heard a voice nearby, murmuring low enough for only his ears.

"Heya, Ruuuudy."

He turned. " _Stanley_. Guess you're going to enjoy that, huh?"

Kowalski smirked. "As much as possible. You working this thing with Fraser, huh?"

Ray nodded. "You?"

Kowalski lifted a shoulder. "I started two weeks ago. So," he continued, grinning, "that's some set of pipes you have there."

Ray felt his face heat. He didn't mind singing in front of Fraser, because he knew that Fraser liked his voice, liked him discussing a case or murmuring over dinner or moaning in bed. He did mind singing in front of Kowalski, the needling little shit.

"I do all right. Listen, I need to get home and drink some tea. Catch you later."

"Later, Ruuuudy."

Fraser came to Ray's apartment that night, for the first time in eight days, showing up after ten (the rehearsals were three hours long) and looking beat. Ray brought him in and pressed him gently onto the couch, heated up the remainder of his pot of tea, and brought it and some little cookies out to him.

"You're very kind, Ray." Fraser tucked in. Ray just watched, seeing the fatigue wear off as the tea recharged him. When his cup was empty, Fraser set the china down on the end table and smiled at him.

"Feel better?"

"Much."

A sigh escaped Ray, and he leaned over Fraser. Fraser's mouth was warm and tasted a little like honey. Ray pushed his fingers through Fraser's thick hair and held him close, angling to get the kiss deeper.

It lasted for a few blissful seconds, but then Fraser put a hand on his chest and pressed him away.

"As much as I appreciate this, Ray, I should get to bed. It's late."

Ray blinked, then nodded and backed off. "You're right. You staying here?"

"I thought I might, if you would be amenable."

"Benny." Ray tilted his head toward Fraser with a disappointed look. "Of course you can."

Fraser got up first, brushing Ray as he stood. By the time Ray had undressed, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed next to him, Fraser was asleep.

Before he could even begin to drift off, Ray heard the phone ring out in the kitchen. He grumbled and got up again, giving a glance to Fraser (still asleep) on his way out of the bedroom.

"Yeah." he answered. Anyone calling after ten p.m. didn't deserve niceties.

"Vecchio, it's Kowalski."

"Yeah?"

"I can't get ahold of Fraser, and I need to talk about the case. We've got developments."

"I—" Ray thought of Fraser in his bed. Shit, what if Kowalski wanted to come here? "Now?"

"Yeah, it can't wait. Can you meet me?"

Ray was a little relieved he'd made the suggestion. "Sure. You know Bridgeport, downtown?"

"Forget coffee shops, I'm tailing this guy. I'll give you an address."

It took almost half an hour of driving, and then circling the block twice, but Ray spotted the GTO lurking dark and silent at the end of the residential street. Ray parked and got out, walked back to the Goat, and slid into the passenger seat.

"What's up?"

"This guy from the community college. I like him for this."

"Wait, who? Why are you _tailing_ him? There's no sign of this turning into a spree. It's just the one guy who died."

Kowalski shot him a dirty look, then continued watching a dark townhouse across the street. "So you think it was just _an accident_ that a guy, no enemies, beloved in his community, gets beaten to death in an alley? There's a reason Welsh doesn't want to just let this case die. It stinks of a hate crime, and you know the fuckers who do those don't just _stop_."

"Okay, maybe," Ray conceded.

"And I'm tailing him because he took the oboe home."

"He stole an instrument?"

"No, the oboe _player_. Jesus, keep up."

Ray let that go. "Stanley, we're talking about a gay band here. So what if he took a guy home?"

" _He_ is not gay, _Rudy_. I get a vibe from him. Total homophobe."

"Jesus, you and your freaking vibes—"

Ray broke off as Kowalski stiffened, popping the door on the car and bursting out into the street. Looking out the windshield, he saw that someone had come out of the house.

"Call for backup! And help this guy!" Kowalski was yelling, drawing his gun as he headed into the house.

 _Show off,_ Ray thought as he crossed the street. The guy who had come out of the house was curled up on the stoop, moaning and crying. As Ray got closer, he could see blood dripping down a swollen face.

"It's okay, buddy. I got ya." Ray pulled out his cell phone and put a hand on the guy's shoulder, feeling him shudder as the call to 911 went through.

The guy would be okay—a black eye and broken nose, but that was about it. Kowalski had moved fast but the perp had heard him coming and hoofed it. It had come down to who knew the neighborhood better, and Kowalski had lost him.

They wrapped up the scene with patrol officers and sent the guy off in an ambulance. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, but Kowalski patted his shoulder and said, "Just call me DL." The oboe nodded.

Ray and Kowalski then drove to the station house and put down their notes while the events were still fresh. Finally they finished and went back to their respective cars. It was nearly three a.m. and Ray was hoping he was alert enough to drive.

"He won't talk," Kowalski was saying. He was fiddling with that metal bracelet of his. "If anything, he'll just say that a couple of guys from his band were worried about him—"

"Yeah, okay. I'll talk to you tomorrow, alright? I need to get home and crash."

"Ever figure out where Fraser was?"

Ray fumbled his keys. He picked them up from the pavement, bending carefully, feeling every minute he'd been awake too long. "Probably getting a good night's rest. See you later."

He called in a message on his way home, telling Welsh's voicemail that he'd be in around 11 a.m. Then he followed the same routine he'd done almost five hours earlier, undressing and pulling on pajamas, then climbed into bed.

"Where did you go?" Fraser murmured in the darkness.

"On a case." He resisted the urge to put his cold feet against Fraser's legs.

"You didn't wake me?"

Vecchio sighed and put his arm over his eyes, wishing it would feel right for him to just curl around Fraser's warmth and hibernate. But he hadn't forgotten Fraser pushing him away, earlier. "You've been working hard enough. I'll update you in the morning."

The truth, he thought as he drifted into sleep, was that Fraser wasn't so easy to talk to, lately.

When Ray awoke, Fraser had gone to work. He got himself into the station, thinking he'd call Fraser when he had a chance, but his day was filled with activity in dealing with the oboe player's beating. And after the paperwork was done and calls were made, Kowalski leaned a hip on the desk next to Ray.

"Andy Melakis—"

"Who?" Ray interrupted.

"The oboe. Just talked to him. He's cool, he's not going to say anything. He won't even be at rehearsal until the swelling goes down."

"All right." Ray checked his watch. It was after 2 p.m. "Want to get a bite to eat?"

They went to a burger joint around the corner, joining at least a dozen guys in uniform from the 27th. Ray had only planned as far as eating, but Kowalski wanted to talk shop. As soon as the waitress took their orders, Kowalski slid the paper menu back into the holder and took a sip from his coffee, then started.

"Perp's name is Gilroy Bertman. He manages the performance hall at the college, renting it to different groups. We've got teams at the college and his house, and more interviewing colleagues and the band members. I talked to Fraser, and he's going to cancel rehearsal for the next week so that nobody else is targeted."

"You talked to Fraser?" Ray said when Kowalski paused for a sip of coffee.

"Yeah. Haven't you?"

"Not since last night."

For a moment Ray thought he'd let the cat out of the bag, and he froze to see if Kowalski had noticed. Then he realized that they'd both seen Fraser the night before, at rehearsal, so there was nothing suspicious about what he'd said.

Their food came and they tucked in. The fuel made Ray relax, and he found himself engaging in small talk as he started on his fries.

"How long have you been playing the sax, Kowalski?"

Kowalski pushed his napkin around his side of the table, uncomfortable. Ray watched it with amusement. "High school. I dropped it for a while but I never forgot how to read sheet music." He looked up at Ray. He was squinting playfully. "You pick up this Frank Sinatra thing when you were in Vegas?"

"This is natural God-given talent. I never even had to take a lesson." Ray grinned smugly and sipped his water.

"Guess your mama spent that money on dressing you."

"Jealous, t-shirt boy?"

Kowalski snorted into his coffee. "T-shirt boy? Ooh, I'm quaking here. Vecchio's got an arsenal of words and he's _on fire_."

"Enough goofing." Ray finished his water and caught the waitress's eye, tipping his head up in a signal. "And don't you be talking about my mama," he finished. Kowalski grinned.

When Fraser was done with his shift at the Consulate, he came to the station to meet with Vecchio and Kowalski. There was nothing new to report, and with the day wrapping up, they decided to call it a day. As Ray was pulling on his coat and thinking about how to get Fraser to come home with him, Kowalski said, "How about dinner?"

"We just had burgers two hours ago!"

"I would be happy to cook for all of us, Ray." Fraser turned toward him but offered a smile over his shoulder to Kowalski. "I haven't had a meal since noon."

"Fraser cooking. This is golden." Kowalski clapped his hands together, then pointed a finger at Ray. "You drive, Vecchio, I don't want to have to find parking around the consulate."

"Actually, Ray…" Fraser tugged at his neckline.

"We can do it at my house. More private." Ray felt stupid as soon as he'd said it, and Kowalski was giving him a curious look. It's not like the consulate wasn't private. It's that if Fraser was cooking, it meant he was also sleeping in Ray's bed that night. That was their routine.

So they piled into the department-issue car and Ray drove. As Ray let them into the apartment, he immediately looked around for anything incriminating. Two used mugs instead of one? Fraser's clothes strewn around the living room? But the apartment was spotless and Kowalski didn't seem to suspect anything. Fraser pulled some frozen soup out to thaw, and Ray poured some wine for them and tried to relax.

Kowalski sipped his wine and sauntered over to Ray's music collection. He started pulling discs out and looking at the track listings, then turned on the stereo system.

"Let's hear it, _Rudy_." He threw a grin over his shoulder, and the sound of a big band orchestra crashed into the room. Vecchio immediately recognized the famous live Frank Sinatra album, recorded in 1966 at the Sands.

He sighed and took another sip of wine. He wasn't exactly in the mood to perform for Kowalski. But then he heard Fraser's voice, pitched to carry over the wailing sax solo: "Please do, Ray. I would enjoy it."

Well, then. Ray put down his glass and stood. He looked at Kowalski's expectant grin, then away, and picked up the second verse of "Fly Me to the Moon."

"Fill my heart with song, and let me sing forevermore." Vecchio couldn't help it. He looked at Fraser and continued, "You are all I long for, all I worship and adore."

Realizing what he'd just done, he ducked his head and sang to the floor. "In other words, please be true." There was a blast of sound from Basie's big band. "In other words, I love you."

During the bridge, Kowalski came over and grabbed Vecchio's hands, pulling him into a dancing position. Before he knew it, Ray was being led around his living room, Kowalski's hips bumping his, arms tightening, guiding him expertly with his body. Ray laughed as they turned and twisted, body movements punctuated by the dynamic music. Then Kowalski released him just as quickly.

Vecchio regained his balance and focused on the music. He knew every beat and every rest, the little quirks that made the rendition unique, and covered them all. As the song wrapped up, he turned toward the kitchen, where Fraser was watching them as he stirred the soup.

"I—"

A caress of sound from Count Basie.

"I love—"

And another. Three beats from the piano, the keys tickled.

"You."

There was an uproar coming from the speakers, but it was covered by Kowalski's hollering and Fraser's clapping.

"All right, all right." Vecchio held up his hands. "The neighbors are going to start beating on the walls."

"Dinner is ready, in any case," Fraser said. As he carried out two bowls of soup, he murmured, "That was wonderful." Vecchio smiled and pulled out a chair to sit.

They took their time with the meal. Fraser had reheated enough of the soup for two servings each, and Kowalski kept pouring the wine for Vecchio. They finished off the leftover tiramisu that Mama Vecchio had sent home, and then Ray pulled out the brandy and walnuts. Fraser lectured about the grand seafairing tradition of nuts and liquor as the final course to the gentlemen's meal, and while Kowalski obviously didn't care either way about the walnuts, he had no problem with the brandy.

He was loose-limbed and bright-eyed when he turned in his chair, crossing his legs and lounging comfortably. "So," he said to Fraser, "how long have you and Vecchio been together?"

"What?" Vecchio yelped.

"Four months," Fraser said.

Kowalski turned a grin onto Ray. "He can't tell a lie, remember?"

Vecchio buried his head on his hands. Even the haze of alcohol fogging his brain didn't relieve what he was feeling right now. Anger, indignation, and, yeah, fear. "Fraser, you coulda—"

"Ray is my friend, Ray, and yours. There's no reason for him not to know. I felt it was time." Fraser hadn't been drinking, but he was still bright-eyed when Ray looked up at him. He was sitting up straight in his chair, like he had a pole down his shirt, and he was looking at Ray with a scared expression.

Ray hated himself for that.

He looked at Kowalski. "It's true, okay?"

Kowalski dipped his head. "I know. Now let me ask you something." He put his glass down and stood up, leaning across the table, putting his face close to Ray's. "How much would Fraser mind if I kissed you right now?"

 _Jesus_. This situation was getting out of control. Ray opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. His head felt hot. All he could see was the smirk on Kowalski's face, close enough to feel his breath.

"I wouldn't mind, Ray," Fraser said softly.

Ray made a sound. Kowalski cut it off, soft lips against his, tongue teasing the inside of his lip. Ray felt teeth next, adding the tiniest sting, just enough to make a sound come out of Ray's throat, and then Kowalski groaned and angled his head to deepen the kiss.

And that was good, actually that felt _great_ , but Fraser was watching. Ray shut his mouth, pushing Kowalski's tongue out, and stood up.

"Fraser," he started, face burning.

"I really don't mind, Ray." Fraser stood as well, circling the table. "Ray Kowalski and I talked about his attraction to you, and his to me. The feelings have always been mutual…except that we weren't sure about you."

"I think I'm sure," Kowalski said behind Ray. He sounded way too satisfied. Ray didn't want to look.

"In certain cultures, Ray, monogamy is not the necessarily the societal norm for people who love each other. Love is accepted as the gift it is, shared between whoever feels it, no matter what other connections they may harbor. As long as everyone is respected—"

"Want a threesome?" Kowalski interrupted.

" _Ray_ ," Fraser admonished.

Vecchio dropped back into his chair. _Jesus._ Fraser had some pretty weird ideas, but this was beyond the pale. _Kowalski_. And him. And Fraser. How was that supposed to work? What next? Holding hands? Coming to Sunday dinner at Ma's house with Kowalski in the backseat? Sure the kiss felt great, but so did cashmere gloves. It didn't mean he was going to have sex with them.

This was too much, and he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

Surprisingly, there was dead silence around him. It was at least a full minute, maybe two, before Kowalski spoke.

" _Ookay_. I'm going to take off now. Thanks for dinner, Frase."

Ray let Fraser say goodnight for them both, and waited until he heard the door close. Then he stood up, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"So you been talking to Kowalski about love. And not coming over so often anymore. And christ knows if I can remember the last time we had sex."

"Ray—"

"You want to think about Kowalski and sex? Fine. I'll leave you to it."

He wouldn't hear anything more, wouldn't look at Fraser. He turned on his heel, stripping off his jacket on the way to the bedroom. "See you later, Benny."

Fraser didn't come over from the consulate for the rest of that week. Kowalski avoided Ray around the bullpen. Ray went home early and ate and drank and fell asleep, alone.

At the end of the week, Fraser called for another rehearsal. Ray didn't actually talk to him; there was a voicemail from Fraser, recorded while Fraser was on his lunch break. Ray nearly deleted it when he'd heard the whole thing, but saved it without really thinking.

He went to the college on Saturday morning, bringing a thermos of tea and wrapping himself up to the nose against the cool morning air. The scarf was as much armor as anything, a shield against everyone. He felt naked when he had to take it off inside the rehearsal space.

Kowalski was there, third chair in the sax section. He was studying his sheet music like he had to pass the bar exam, holding it in one hand and frowning at it.

Fraser came in only when everyone had arrived, and they settled quickly. When the shuffling of sheet music and tuning had wrapped up, Fraser lifted his baton and said, "Fly Me to the Moon."

Ray suppressed a groan. The pianist glanced at him, so he got to his feet. The band started up, and he timed himself, watching the sheet music as they played.

"Fly me to the moon—"

"Stop, please."

Ray's head jerked up as the band fell silent. He stared at Fraser.

"Rudy, a bit more emotion, please."

What the…?

Fraser raised his baton, and they began again. Ray felt his ears get warm, but he went on.

"Fly me to the moon, let me swing among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars. In other words, hold my hand…"

Fraser dropped his arm again. "All right, ladies and gentlemen." There were a few audible groans this time. Fraser ignored them.

"I want all of you to pay attention, not just Rudy. Everyone's playing suffers when you don't feel what the song is saying. Rudy, please read the lyrics."

Read?

Ray looked down at his sheet music automatically, but he knew the lyrics by heart. He recited them, looking at the pages but not comprehending, thinking more on what was coming out of his mouth.

"In other words, hold my hand. In other words, kiss me."

"It's a seduction," Fraser interjected. He was speaking to the entire group, but the words felt like they were for Ray alone. "An exhortation for the listener to show how much they love the speaker. But if the speaker does not mean what he or she is saying, why should the listener care?"

Fraser got down off the conductor's stand and began to move among the band, hands behind his back, meeting peoples' eyes as he talked. "Emotions can be difficult to share, sometimes. The singer and audience, both, can experience this. Societal pressures and self-esteem make some feel that they can't confront the emotions, so they avoid them. They shut down. But nothing is more crippling than this."

Now, more than just Ray's ears were hot. He didn't deserve Benny. He was so smart, so good, so _aware_. He didn't even want to go on, not to sing another word, not unless he meant it and knew he had earned Fraser's attention. And he could hear Fraser's apology there, and knew that Fraser had been avoiding him because the music had made him feel too much.

"Once again, please."

This time, when Ray opened his mouth, he was so surprised by the volume of sound that his eyes popped open. He heard a hoot of enjoyment from the pianist, and the band picked up speed.

After the first verse, Kowalski suddenly stood, his sax pressed to his mouth. He played a solo for a few bars, then dropped out for the lead trumpet to take over. Ray found himself smiling, tapping his foot to the beat, feeling the band perform at their best level yet. They were attuned to each other, knowing instinctively what each soloist wanted.

As he took up the second verse, Kowalski stood again. This time they traded parts in the solo, Kowalski's notes weaving with Ray's voice, a swinging duet. It felt good.

Ray was wrapping up the final chorus when he heard something off. The trumpets had dropped out with a clang and crash. Turning, he saw bodies scuffling in the corner.

"Chicago PD!" Kowalski yelled. He jumped up and reached under his jacket, pulling out his weapon. "Let that guy go or I'll shoot, Gilroy."

It was pointless; there was a mob of people between him and the venue manager, and they were all on their feet. "Fucking faggots!" Ray heard a man scream. There was yelling from everyone else, equipment crashing, cacophany. Ray started pressing through the crowd, trying to climb over the rows and rings of chairs and music stands. Fraser was two yards ahead of him, Kowalski six yards to his right.

"I got him!" someone shouted. The din quieted somewhat. "Ben, someone, call the police!"

"We _are_ the police," Kowalski yelled back. He reached the edges of the crowd and started to press through.

Ray was a second behind him. He pushed past the musicians and stopped. Gilroy Bertman was face-down on the riser where the trumpeters normally stood. He had a foot pinning his neck, four hands on his back, and someone's tie around his wrists. Still he struggled, swearing and wriggling, red-faced.

"Make some room," Ray said reflexively. He turned, holding his arms out. "Chicago PD. We're undercover. Give us some room, everyone."

They went back to Ray's apartment after the bust was completed. It was early enough for them to have lunch—Ray made ravioli with the frozen hand-made pasta his ma had sent home with him—and Benny mixed up some spiced cider for them. They were sitting around the table, Frank on the stereo singing about having a crush on you, Kowalski's knees bumping Ray's.

"Benny." Ray clasped his hands tightly, his knuckles and fingertips turning white. He talked to them instead of across the table. "Would it make you happy to be with Kowalski? Together with me?"

"Ray, I will do whatever—"

"Just be selfish and answer it, okay?"

Fraser paused. Ray looked up in time to see his nod.

"I would enjoy that immensely, Ray. You both work and socialize so well together, I think it would be a natural extension of our relationship. I care about you both, very much."

Ray looked at Kowalski.

"You already know the answer." Kowalski slung an arm around the back of his chair. "I'm offerin' here."

This was so weird. Ray was completely out of his element. And what was new about that?

He stood and leaned across the table, meeting Kowalski's grin with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> So what happened was, brynnmck and I went to see jarrow perform with the [Rainbow City Band](http://www.rainbowcityband.com/), and the swing portion of the evening featured this really nice singer. A minute or so into the first song, I was admiring the guy's balding head with short-cropped hair, and his aquiline profile, and his nice clothes, and I thought, "Hunh, he could be like Vecchio with a beard." I leaned over and muttered this to Brynn, and she whispered "I WAS JUST THINKING THAT."
> 
> And then the rest of the evening was passed with fits of giggling and mental fic-plotting. There was even a sax player who had experimental blond hair, and he didn't solo with anyone else but the singer.
> 
> AND you can go to the band's MySpace page [here](http://www.myspace.com/ppswingband) and see video clips of the same performance. Check it out! Bearded Vecchio! Sax-playing Kowalski!


End file.
